


You and Me ('Til the End of the World)

by Tangela



Series: Boy toy named Troy used to live in Detroit [9]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, First Kiss, Ghosts, Love Confessions, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Warning there is death in this fic, You'll need to read it to see what I mean, but there is a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-17 03:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21047522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangela/pseuds/Tangela
Summary: Some people find love in the most unusual circumstances.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is - my very belated entry for the Hankcon Big Bang. Unfortunately I haven't been able to get in touch with the artists that I was working with, but I didn't want to let my work go to waste, so I've made the decision to go ahead and post. Hopefully I'll be able to link their work at a later date!
> 
> Warning: Like I mentioned in the tags, there is a death in this fic, but it all ends happily, I promise. I didn't want to tag it due to spoilers, but I also didn't want to upset or trigger anyone.
> 
> As the fic is finished, I'll be adding chapters fairly regularly. Enjoy!

In his own defence, Hank had never meant for any of it to happen.

It had all started as a joke one evening. A gathering in the parlour after dinner began with the usual talk and then, as conversations were wont to do, led into something completely different altogether. On this occasion, ghosts. Hank was the first to turn his nose up at the very mention of it, as the rest of the room knew he would.

“Ghosts,” he scoffed into his glass of whiskey.

“You can’t dismiss the idea when you have no proof,” Ben said.

“And what proof do _you_ have to convince me?” Hank shot back.

“There _are _people who can speak to spirits, you know.”

“And are you one of them?”

“Mediums, Hank.”

Hank laughed humourlessly. “And all these years I was led to believe that you were a smart man.”

Ben shrugged his shoulders, not one to be deterred by his friend’s stubborn nature. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

Hank had to admit, if only to himself, that he was. He had never been much of a believer in anything remotely paranormal, but since his wife had passed...He wouldn’t have told a soul, but he’d tried everything he could think of to try and communicate beyond the living realm. Out of desperation, he’d even tried an Ouija board. All to no avail. Was a medium really that much more far-fetched? This was the 20th century, surely society was beyond this supernatural bullshit. But even so, Hank found something he couldn’t quite understand nagging at him, urging him on.

_At least try_, it said.

He sank the rest of his whiskey, setting the glass aside.

“Fine,” he relented with a tired sigh, “What have I got to lose?”

“That’s the spirit.”

Ben couldn’t help but chuckle at his own joke, and Hank rolled his eyes.

—

It was all so gaudy and over the top, and Hank said as much. A heavy velvet curtain was drawn back to reveal a small, dark room with candles scattered across every surface. In the centre of the room was a table with a crystal ball in the middle. A woman appeared from behind the curtain on the other side of the room, wearing so many jewels that she jingled when she walked.

Hank couldn’t have stopped his eyes from rolling if he tried. He was as sceptical as they came, and he wasn’t in the least bit embarrassed about telling this woman that she was a fraud and cheating vulnerable people out of their money. He expected some kind of backlash, but instead she sat down, indicating for him to do the same. She reached out across the table and took his hand in hers for a brief moment.

“Someone is with you,” she said with a serene smile.

Hank resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. “Is that right?” he asked, tone dripping with sarcasm.

_Here it comes, _he thought to himself, _she’ll say my wife is here and wants me to find peace and move on, or whatever nonsense Ben’s told her to say to make me happy._

“A man,” she continued.

Hank frowned. “A man,” he repeated.

“Yes, he’s…Oh, this one is hard to read.”

_Of course he is. _Hank was having a hard time holding his tongue.

“You’ll find what you’ve lost.”

She squeezed Hank’s hand suddenly, looking him in the eye for the first time.

“Someone is looking out for you.”

Hank snatched his hand out of her grasp. Fear struck him as if out of nowhere and he was out of his seat so fast, he almost knocked it over. Ever the good friend, Ben refused to let him hear the end of it.

“She really spooked you,” he said with a wicked glint in his eye.

Hank waved his hand dismissively. “The only thing scary about her was how much she charged.”

He thought no more of it. But when he went to sleep that night, he dreamed of a man with dark eyes.

\--

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at first. Hank had chalked it down to just another scam, and tried to forget about it. Still, there was a part of him that wished that it had have worked - it had already been three years, and even though the worst of his grieving was mercifully over, he still missed Elena, and he’d hoped that perhaps he could have-

Hank shook his head. Nothing but a con. He pushed it to the back of his mind, and thought no more about it. At least, until he began to notice things. Nothing too out of the ordinary at first, but Hank soon began to notice that if he lost something, it would quickly turn up again, usually in the spot that he’d been looking for it. He had a habit of muttering to himself whenever he’d lost something, in the hopes that he’d jog his memory, and in the beginning, he thought that perhaps it was his housekeeper, Martha. She knew that he didn’t like to be disturbed, and he thought that this was her going above and beyond her duty. But even he couldn’t convince himself of that for long. It couldn’t be her. How could she be in so many places at once?

No, this was something else. Something that Hank had never believed in, except in perhaps his most desperate hours. And all things considered, he thought himself to be quite stable right now. So what was going on?

_“You’ll find what you’ve lost.”_

Hank had figured that that was some “otherworldly” nonsense”, he didn’t actually think the woman had meant it literally.

_She didn’t mean anything, she’s a con artist. Pull yourself together._

It still didn’t explain what was going on around the house, but since whatever it was didn’t seem to be causing any harm, Hank found himself eventually growing used to it. He didn’t dare tell anyone. That would be just what he’d need, everyone knowing that Hank Anderson, the town sceptic, believed in ghosts. He had a reputation to keep after all. And a part of him, some little part of him that he’d never acknowledge out loud, was worried that he’d scare whatever it was away. He’d even grown to thanking it when it returned something he’d lost - out of earshot of anyone else, of course.

However, whatever it was wasn’t always as pleasant and unassuming. Sumo, Hank’s huge Saint Bernard, had taken to barking in the oddest places at the drop of a hat. He was usually a quiet old thing, and spent his days lumbering behind Hank or the household servants in the hopes that someone would drop a scrap of food for him, and his evenings curled up in front of the fire. But now Hank could find him at any given time of day in the corner of a room or at the bottom of the stairs, barking as if the house was on fire. It wouldn’t take much to calm him, but still Hank worried. Either the poor dog was losing his mind, or there _was_ something in the house. Hank wasn’t sure which one was worse. A private joke of a ghost returning the occasional lost book or pen was one thing, but this was something else entirely.

Over time, the situation began to gradually grow out of hand, and it was becoming more and more difficult for Hank to keep chalking everything that had been happening down to a few coincidences and a dog with an overactive imagination.

He woke with a start one night to Sumo scratching at his door. Already something didn’t seem right and Hank had barely opened his eyes. He always made sure to keep his bedroom door open for Sumo – he’d learned the hard way a long time ago what would happen otherwise.

“Sumo,” he called groggily.

Sumo kept on scratching, as if he couldn’t hear Hank. That wasn’t like him. Hank tried again, to no avail. He pulled himself upright, stopping suddenly. Either he had gone completely mad, or he could hear music. Quickly rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he got out of bed and crept across the room to the door.

“Sumo, shush,” he hissed, trying to shove the poor beast away from the door.

Hank managed to squeeze through the opening he’d made in the door, locking Sumo in behind him. The sound of music was louder in the hallway, and it took Hank a moment to realise where it was coming from. The piano in the parlour. But who in God’s name was up at this hour? He crept down the old staircase as quietly as he could, following the thin line of light streaming from the parlour door that stood ajar. Hank inched closer to the door, praying to God that the wood under his feet wouldn’t creak and give him away. He quickly pushed the door open in one fluid motion, hoping the element of surprise would gain him the upper hand, if only for a moment.

The room suddenly fell silent. Hank looked around. There was no one there. But that couldn’t be. He’d heard music, he wasn’t going crazy. And Sumo had been scratching at his door to get out as if his life depended on it. He gave the room a quick once-over, and found nothing. He warily made his way back to his bedroom to find Sumo still a nervous wreck. He climbed back into bed, not before sliding the bolt across the door and calling the poor dog up onto the bed to sleep beside him. Sleep didn’t come quickly that night, and when it did, he dreamed of the man with dark eyes again. Waves of fog rolled around them.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice distorted in his ears.

The man just smiled, reaching out to take Hank’s hand in his own. Another wave of fog rolled by, and the man was gone.

Hank woke with a start, shaking. He looked at his hand. It didn’t look any different, but it felt _cold. _

He didn’t fall asleep again until the first rays of the morning sun began to creep under the curtains.

—

Between the goings on in the house, the dreams, and now the servants beginning to ask questions about noises at night, Hank was exhausted. He had quite enough of…whatever it was, thank you very much. On one afternoon, after Martha had asked for the third time that week why Hank had taken to playing piano in the middle of the night, he decided that he would retire to his room for a while before dinner. Surely nothing out of the ordinary would happen during the day.

Hank climbed the stairs, idly wondering where Sumo had gotten to. He figured he was harassing whoever was working in the kitchen as usual and thought no more of it until he reached his bedroom.

Hank stopped dead as he closed the door, the book in his hand clattering to the floor. Sumo was stretched out on the floor, lying in a patch of sunlight that streamed through the window. But it wasn’t the dog that had made Hank stop. It was the man on his knees next to the dog petting him. Hank had never seen this man before in his life, and no one was allowed in his quarters without his permission. But even that wasn’t it.

The fact of the matter was that Hank could see _right through him._

The man quickly stood up, a sheepish expression on his face.

“Please don’t be startled,” he said, his voice all too clear and real.

That was the first time Hank had fainted in a very long time.

\--

When Hank regained consciousness, it was to find himself lying on his bed, book by his side.

_Of course_, he told himself, _it was just a dream. The summer heat’s getting to me._

He slowly sat up. He felt far too stiff to have been asleep, and his arm hurt. It hadn’t before. And Sumo was asleep, just as he was when Hank had found him with-

Something caught his eye. Warily, he moved the book aside to reveal a folded piece of paper. He opened it to find a note in small, neat script.

_I am truly sorry for frightening you. - C_

C? Who was C? And then it dawned on Hank. He hadn’t been dreaming. Whatever he’d seen...it had been real. Fear and excitement welled up in him all at once, and he stood up in a hurry, brushing off the rush of dizziness as he paced the floor.

This was ludicrous, it was downright _insane_. He’d seen a ghost. An honest-to-God ghost.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered to himself, voice shaking with adrenaline.

He cleared his throat, closing his eyes.

“If you’re here,” he announced to the wide room, “show yourself to me.”

He opened his eyes. There was no one there. Quickly, he turned around. The room was empty. He sighed, feeling the smallest pang of disappointment. He looked down at the note in his hand. It felt so real. It _was_ real. He wasn’t going mad, nor was he someone to desperately cling to the possibility of something fantastic and make himself believe it to be true. He pocketed the note, taking one last look around the room before he turned to leave. Then a thought struck him. He crossed the room to his desk, pulling out a pen and a page from the drawer. He sat down with a strangely giddy feeling, thinking for a moment before finally putting pen to paper.

_Who are you? – H_

Hank wasn’t sure what else to write, but perhaps this C person – or whatever he was – would want to communicate this way. After all, it had been his idea. He took another look at the note, and with a resolute nod, set it on his bed before he left.

\--

Hank spent most of the day trying not to think about what had happened. But how could he not? He could tell himself all he liked that what he’d seen was down to his imagination and the heat, but the note. There was no way he’d made that up. And besides, as far as he could recall, he was in front of his bedroom door when he’d collapsed. How would anyone have gotten in to move him to his bed? Unless he did it himself and didn’t remember, that was a possibility.

But who could have written the note? No one in the house had made any mention of finding him out cold, and his servants were not up to the task of pranks. He was a kind and fair man, it didn’t seem right. So that left only one possibility, and he was reluctant to even think it.

Hank Anderson, the most sceptical man on God’s earth, had seen a ghost.

Evening couldn’t come quick enough. The day dragged by, and Hank retired to bed with more enthusiasm than he’d ever shown. He made sure to slide the lock into place on his door, to make absolute sure that there was no foul play involved.

On his bed was a note. His heart sank a little. It was the note that he’d left earlier that afternoon. He picked it up, about to toss it away, when something caught his eye. The writing, it wasn’t his. Nervously, he sat down and unfolded the paper.

_My name is Connor._

That was all it said, but Hank read it over and over as if that one sentence held an entire story.

Connor. His name is Connor.

Hank carefully folded the page, placing it in his bedside drawer before seating himself at his desk again. He needed to write something longer this time, so that if Connor wrote back, his response would be longer too. Hank nodded to himself. That made sense. He stopped and started a few times, going through several pages before he was satisfied.

_Connor,_

_My name is Hank, but I imagine you must already know that since you’ve been here for some time, now that I give it some thought. I must know, why are you here? Have you always been here, and I haven’t noticed you until now? Do you have some purpose here, or with me?_

Hank decided not to sign his name, since he’d already introduced himself. He left the note on his desk, figuring Connor would be able to find it. He undressed himself and climbed into bed. Sleep took a while to come to him, he couldn’t stop his mind from racing. Would Connor reply? What would he say? He felt like a child waiting for his birthday. Eventually exhaustion took over him, and he drifted off to sleep.

\--

The next morning, there was a note on the desk, in place of the one that Hank had written the night before. Nervousness rolled through him as he unfolded the page.

_Hank,_

_I’m not entirely sure why I’m here. The only way I can describe it is that I just appeared in this house one day, as if I had woke up from a sleep. I understand that it perhaps isn’t the best arrangement, but I’m afraid there appears to be nothing that I can do about it._

“Just appeared…” Hank murmured to himself, before setting the note down and reaching for a fresh page and a pen.

He wasn’t quite sure what else to say. Connor hadn’t asked anything about him, and it seemed strange prying into someone’s business, living or not. The whole situation was beyond ridiculous, and Hank was tempted to just throw the notes away and be done with it. But whether he wanted to believe it or not, something he couldn’t fully comprehend was not only living in his house unseen, but writing to him. He couldn’t simply ignore it and hope that it would just go away, as much as part of him wanted to.

He thought for a while, before writing the one question that kept coming into his mind.

_Do you mean me harm?_

There really was no polite way of asking, and Hank had to know. It was bad enough to have one’s entire belief system knocked entirely on its head in a matter of days, and quite another to have said thing one didn’t believe in to be not only real, but evil. He left the note on his desk, and went about his day. He kept himself busy with work, and tried not to think about Connor. Which, not surprisingly, was becoming increasingly difficult. By six o’clock, Hank had to stop himself from taking the stairs two at a time to his room.

A note lay waiting for him.

_Of course not._

Hank let out the breath he didn’t even realise he’d been holding. He quickly made up his mind. They were getting nowhere with this. Hank had never been a very patient man, and what little he had was beginning to wear thin. He had to see Connor again, had to face what he was, as much as he was having trouble believing it.

He took a page and wrote:

_I would like to see you again, now that I know what you are – although I can hardly bring myself to think it. Meet me in the parlour tonight after nine – the room with the piano that you’re so fond of._

He straightened up his appearance and left for dinner. He found himself looking at the grandfather clock more than the food in front of him. He had never been more nervous in his life. What if Connor had been lying, and did mean him harm? What if Hank was delusional? What if he’d thought he’d seen something and now someone was playing a cruel prank on him with the notes?

_What if, what if, what if._

The clock couldn’t chime nine fast enough.

\--

Hank hesitated outside the parlour, trying to prepare himself for what he was about to find there. He took a deep breath, and opened the door. A man sat at the piano, hands folded in his lap. It was him.

“Connor?” Hank asked tentatively, his voice far quieter than he meant.

Connor stood up, a shy smile on his face. He was tall, almost as tall as Hank, and lean, with dark wavy hair and darker eyes.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he said. His voice was soft, with a slight coarseness to it.

And then suddenly it dawned on Hank.

“You’re the man I’ve been seeing in my dreams,” he said without thinking.

Connor just looked at him. “Dreams?”

“I’ve been having these dreams. The same dream, since I…” Hank thought for a moment. “Since I saw the medium.”

He looked at Connor.

“It was you.”

Connor couldn’t quite meet Hank’s gaze.

Strange,” was all he offered, before turning his attention to the chairs by the fireplace.

“May we sit?” he asked.

Hank sat down in one of the high-back armchairs, gesturing for Connor to do the same in the other. He had no idea what he was supposed to say.

Just what _does_ one say to a ghost?

Connor smiled. “I suppose this must be very strange for you.”

“You could say that.”

“Ask me whatever you like, and I’ll do my best to answer.”

Hank thought for a moment. “Why here? I know you said in your note that you didn’t know, but you must have _some _idea.”

“I wish that I could tell you otherwise, but I truly don’t. It was as if I fell asleep, and woke up in this house.”

“Fell asleep? You mean when you-”

Connor quickly shook his head, and that all was Hank needed to know that Connor wasn’t quite willing to talk about anything.

“I already existed in this form, and have done so for quite some time. But I’ve always been free to roam, if you understand. Until now.”

“And that’s all you know?”

“If I knew anything more, I would tell you.”

Connor seemed sincere, and Hank didn’t press him further.

“What made you finally make your presence known?” he asked instead. “Not that I wasn’t aware of something before you materialised in my bedroom.”

Connor had the decency to look embarrassed at that.

“I wanted to say something from the moment I saw- When I appeared here,” Connor said quickly. “But I wasn’t sure how you would react. You weren’t supposed to see me that day, but I…Well, I like dogs, and I felt just awful knowing that I was causing yours such distress.”

“And I suppose you thought you were causing the piano distress too?”

Connor shrank further into his seat. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Hank shook his head, trying not to smile. “Relax, I’m not angry with you. But you must realise how bizarre the past few weeks have been for me. All of these strange occurrences, and then a man I’ve ever met in my life is just standing in my bedroom. Before I met you, I never for a second believed in ghosts. Quite honestly, some part of me still doesn’t. Perhaps I’m still lying unconscious upstairs.”

Hank laughed, and Connor followed suit, his shoulders finally dropping below his ears again.

“I thought that if I left you a note, it might make things a little easier for you,” Connor admitted, “And then I realised that I might have made things even worse. Even after so many years, being…like this still has its difficulties.”

“I can only imagine.”

“I must say, I’m surprised at how well you’ve adjusted,” Connor said. “Most people run screaming into the night when they see me.”

“Most people?”

“Well, the few that have seen me over the years. I think you may be the only one that hasn’t.”

“I did faint,” Hank pointed out.

Connor smiled. “Yes, but that’s far easier on the ears than screaming, I can assure you.”

Conversation came fairly easy between them after that, and Hank was surprised. It wasn’t that he was a particularly difficult man to get along with, but he had always been quite guarded, more of a listener than a talker. Twenty years of detective work will do that to a man.

They soon fell in a habit of meeting in the parlour in the late evening, when the rest of the house had retired for the night. They’d talk for hours, sometimes until the early hours of the morning, when Hank would have to force himself to go to bed. Rarely had he ever found a person in his life that he felt so comfortable with.

Not since…

There were some things neither of them talked about, of course. Connor didn’t like to talk about his death, and Hank didn’t feel ready to tell Connor about Elena. He couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t as if it was something that needed to be kept secret; after all, it had been three years already, it was public knowledge to everyone who knew Hank. But something kept pulling him back whenever he thought to mention it.

Even friends could have secrets from each other.

Friends. He supposed that was what they were now.

It was…nice.

\--

“Play something for me,” Hank asked one evening.

Weeks had passed since Connor’s arrival, but to Hank, it felt like years. He never understood why people would say that as if it was a bad thing. How could anyone think bad of getting to know someone so well in such a short space of time?

Connor looked up nervously.

“Every time I’ve tried to catch one of your performances, you’ve gotten stage fright,” Hank said with a smile.

“I suppose that is only fair,” he replied, sitting down on the bench in front of the piano.

Hank sat down next to him. The music was halted and unfocused at first, but once Connor’s nerves began to fade and his focus grew, he was incredible. Hank watched his hands move across the keys, as delicate as they were skilled.

“You make it look so easy,” Hank said after a while, not wanting to distract Connor.

Connor, on the other hand, was more than adept at talking and playing.

“We had a piano at home,” he replied. “Nothing as grand as this, of course, an old thing my father brought home one evening and spent weeks fixing up. I think he was upset once it worked, now he had nothing to work on anymore, and the added woe of listening to his children make as much noise with it as possible.”

Hank laughed. “I wouldn’t call this noise.”

“Mother told us that if we were to continue giving Father a migraine that we should at least learn to play. My brother quickly grew bored, but I was fascinated by how my mother played. She learned in school, and she taught me how to read music, and occasionally would bring home sheets of music for me to practice. I played almost every day until...”

Connor faltered, suddenly very keen on watching his hands.

“Until?” Hank repeated gently.

“Until I died,” Connor finished, his left hand slipping to the wrong key.

He sighed, letting the bad note ring out in the silence.

“Perhaps you could teach me something sometime,” Hank said, quickly realising that the subject of conversation was in dire need of change. “All I know is Chopsticks.”

Connor laughed softly. “It’s a start. Here, put your hands on mine.”

“What?”

“It’s how my mother taught me. She would play, and my hands would follow hers.”

“No, that part I understand, it’s just- Well-” Hank wasn’t quite sure how to put it, for fear of upsetting Connor again.

“Don’t worry, I’m not as fragile as I look,” Connor reassured him gently. “Go on.”

Hank hesitantly placed his hands over Connor’s. They were solid, and hardly cold at all.

“See? Now, watch my hands closely.”

Now that Hank wasn’t so afraid of his hands falling right through Connor’s, he couldn’t distract himself from the fact that they were _holding _hands. He was holding hands with a ghost. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined something so fantastic. Of all the things he’d seen and done in his life, this was by far the strangest.

“I remember when my aunt and uncle would visit, my mother would always play something for us after dinner. My brother and I would dance around the room with our cousins until we were exhausted.” Connor laughed to himself. “I think that was my mother’s intention.”

Hank couldn’t help but notice how wistful Connor sounded.

“What’s stopping you now?” he asked, and he felt Connor’s hands slow underneath his.

“Well, there would be no music for one thing,” he stammered, determined to keep playing.

Hank removed his hands from Connor’s. “Does that matter?”

“I have no one to dance with, for another.”

Hank tilted his head, and Connor’s eyes widened.

“I- Hank, I couldn’t- I’m a terrible dancer, really-”

Hank was already on his feet, his hand held out.

“Think of it as a down payment for the piano lessons,” he said with a smile.

He was not to be deterred, and eventually Connor relented, nervously placing his hand in Hank’s.

“You’re going to regret this,” Connor said as he placed a hand on Hank’s waist.

Hank just hummed, rearranging Connor’s hand in his. He was wrong before – having a ghost step on his toes was now the strangest experience he’d ever had. Connor hadn’t been lying, he really wasn’t much of a dancer. Hank started slowly, moving from one foot to the other. Connor soon followed suit, matching his movements to Hank’s, and after a while the quiet string of apologies stopped, and they found a steady rhythm together.

Connor was unlike any story – he wasn’t ice cold, and looked and felt far more real than anyone had ever described a ghost to be. If Hank didn’t look too closely, if it was as if he was truly alive.

If someone were to walk in at this moment, they would think Hank had gone completely mad, standing in the middle of the parlour, with his arms outstretched and holding onto nothing. But Connor wasn’t nothing. This didn’t feel like nothing. It was_ real_.

He began humming a tune, something along the lines of what Connor had been playing earlier as he led him around the room in slow, rhythmic circles. He felt something cool touch his shoulder and he glanced down. Connor had laid his head against him, pressing closer as they danced.

Hank tried to concentrate on his movements, but having Connor so close had become a great distraction all of a sudden. What was he supposed to do now? This was hardly a normal thing for friends to do. But nothing had been normal about them from the very start. He looked down again, surprised to find Connor looking up at him. He smiled, and Hank couldn’t quite describe the feeling that washed through him. Connor was moving closer, and Hank found himself doing the same. His eyes slipped closed and he felt something cold brush against his nose. And then the room suddenly felt a little warmer again. Hank opened his eyes. Connor was gone.

What had happened? It was just a dance, and then…

They weren’t about to…

Were they?

Hank shook his head, annoyed at himself for even having such a thought. With a sigh, he turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness before he made his way to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

There was no mention of the night before from Connor the next evening, and Hank decided not to say anything either.

_Nothing happened,_ he told himself, _and nothing was about to happen._

That wasn’t the first time that he’d told himself that.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked what it is that you do,” Connor said, as they sat together in their usual spots in the parlour.

“I’m a detective,” Hank replied. “Or I was.”

“Was?”

“I work from home now. Early retirement. Not that I exactly need the money, as I’m sure you’re well aware,” Hank said, waving a hand carelessly to the grand room they were sitting in. “I suppose I should explain.”

Hank was about to continue, when he heard a voice calling through the door.

“Mr. Anderson?”

“Just a minute, Martha!” Hank called, eyes wide as he looked at Connor. Connor, by contrast, seemed completely at ease.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, “Go, she’ll see you!”

“No, she won’t,” Connor replied assuredly. “Trust me.”

Hank looked nervous, turning his attention to the door. He had to trust Connor on this.

“Come in!”

“Mr. Anderson? I’ve brought you your tea.”

Hank rolled his eyes, but he beckoned her into the parlour. The woman had all but raised him, and no amount of Hank telling her to use his first name would deter her from referring to him by his title. She’d done so since he was a child, and she was very set in her ways. Hank was too, and it was one of the things he found so endearing about her.

He tried to seem casual, glancing between Connor and Martha as she brought over the tray with the tea set pristinely laid out as always.

“Thank you,” Hank said, as she set it down on the table in front of him, “Uh, Martha, could you be a dear and bring me another cup?”

Martha squinted at him through her thin-framed glasses, but she just nodded and left, returning moments later with another cup. Hank thanked her again, taking it from her and setting it across the table, in front of Connor. He should have waited until Martha left, but she didn’t breathe a word. At least, until she got to the door.

“Oh, poor soul,” he heard her murmur to herself as she shut the door behind her.

Connor looked at the cup. “Hank, you know I can’t-”

“I know, but it bothers me if I’m eating or drinking and the other person is sitting empty-handed, so just…humour me, okay?”

Connor smiled as he lifted the cup, delicately threading his fingers through the handle. He looked confused.

“What did Martha mean by that, what she said?” he asked as he set the cup in his lap.

Hank shook his head with a sigh as he poured himself tea. “I think I know,” he replied, settling himself back in the chair. “There are…some things I haven’t told you, Connor. About myself, I mean.”

Connor just looked at him, tucking his feet underneath him on the chair. Hank wondered briefly if ghosts could feel discomfort.

“I was married,” he started, glancing at Connor. He’d always been a concise man, but perhaps he should have built up to that.

Connor was quiet, just looking at him, and Hank realised that his silence was inviting him to continue. Hank took a sip of his tea, steeling himself to continue.

“About three years ago, there was…there was an accident. My wife was on her way home from visiting her sister one night, in the middle of a storm I’ve never seen the likes of since. The car was headed over a bridge and-” Hank stopped, taking a breath. “She and the driver were found in the river the next morning. After that, I…I couldn’t face work anymore. I couldn’t face much of anything anymore.”

This was always the part that Hank hated the most – the pity, the awkward looks, the apologies that meant nothing. Connor had said nothing the entire time, and when Hank looked up, he was gone.

He scoffed to himself, as if it was nothing, but it hurt. It hurt far more than he wanted to admit. He let out a shuddering sigh as he stared at the teacup cradled in his hands, almost jumping out of his skin as a soft breeze touched his shoulder. Connor was behind him, a gentle hand resting on his shoulder.

“Thank you for confiding in me,” he said at last. “It can’t have been easy for you.”

Hank looked up at him, lost for words. Connor gave him a soft smile, and for the briefest moment, Hank felt something in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time. But then Connor was crossing the room and sitting back in his chair, and the moment was gone.

“Is that why you went to a medium?” Connor asked after a time.

Hank looked up.

“The night we met, you told me you’d been to a medium. Is that why?”

Hank nodded. “It wasn’t my idea, of course. A friend’s idea of fun. But I suppose a part of me was curious enough to go along with it. I don’t believe in that sort of thing. Although, I suppose I can’t say that anymore now that I’ve met you, can I?”

They shared a laughed at that, falling into easy conversation as Hank finished his tea.

“She said that someone was with me,” Hank said after a while.

“The medium?” Connor asked.

“She must have meant you.”

Hank found it strange that it had taken him so long to make that realisation.

“Perhaps you’re some kind of guardian angel,” he joked.

Connor smiled. “Or perhaps I’m something you needed more than that.”

“What?”

“A friend.”

\--

It didn’t take Hank long to realise that much of Connor’s time was taken up with…well, Hank. As time went on, Hank found that they spent more and more time together, until eventually Connor had taken to following Hank around as he went about his day. That was another thing that Hank found strange – he didn’t find it annoying. Of course, it wasn’t all the time – a man needs his privacy from time to time, after all. Even still, Hank found himself wondering if this was normal between friends. He supposed that perhaps relationships worked differently when one half was dead, and tried to think no more about it.

Work was one of those places that Connor seemed to show no interest in. On this occasion, however, he had decided to stop by Hank’s office, and Hank found himself unable, or rather unwilling, to object. Even if it was on his own terms for the most part, the hours were still long, and often tedious, and it was nice to have a little company.

Hank looked at the paperwork laid out in front of him on his desk.

“Oh, Lord, please,” he muttered with a sigh.

Connor peered over his shoulder. “Mr. Davidson,” he read aloud. “Is there a problem?”

Hank groaned. “This man has been darkening my door with case after case of nonsense for years. People loitering near his gardens, a piece of litter outside his door, someone looking at him in a funny manner. He’s bad for my health.”

“Can’t you just tell him to go away?”

“If you think I haven’t already tried, then you don’t know me at all.”

Hank straightened up in his chair.

“Now I need you to make yourself scarce. Mr. Davidson will be here any minute.”

“Of course,” Connor replied, but when Hank turned to look behind him, it was to find Connor still standing there.

“Connor.”

“No one but you can see me, I promise.”

Hank was about to reply when the door opened. A tall, well-dressed man entered. He had a large briefcase in one hand, and an even larger air of self-importance.

“Mr. Anderson, I have been trying to contact you for weeks now!” he said without so much as a hello. “Your housekeeper keeps telling me to call back some other time.”

“Well, it has been busy here lately,” Hank replied as politely as he could manage. He stood up, shaking Davidson’s hand with a much firmer grip than was really needed.

“Hmph. Well. Thank you for clearing your busy schedule for me,” Davidson said, his tone sarcastic.

Hank forced a smile onto his face as he sat down. “Please, have a seat.”

A giggle behind him made him start, and he tried to concentrate on the man sitting in front of him as Connor perched himself on the side of the desk. Hank cleared his throat loudly, daring to make the briefest amount of eye contact with Connor. Connor just smiled sweetly and stayed put.

“Mr. Anderson,” Davidson was calling, and Hank quickly realised by his increasing impatient that he’d called him quite a few times already.

“Yes, sorry, Mr. Davidson, you have my full attention.”

“How kind of you. Now, as I’d said to your housekeeper over the phone-”

It was at this moment that Connor decided that just sitting in full view of Hank wasn’t interesting enough to him. He stood up, walking over to stand behind Davidson’s chair. It took every ounce of willpower in Hank’s body to keep himself focused on Davidson.

“-the paperwork. You did receive the paperwork?”

“Paperwork? Yes, yes, of course,” Hank stammered, quickly looking through the paper on his desk.

Davidson made a show of tutting loudly and lifting the page in question from the desk with a flourish before placing it in Hank’s hands.

“If I could please have your attention, Mr. Anderson, I-”

The man stopped as Connor gently his fingers along his neck. He pulled at the collar of his shirt.

“Is there a window open in here?”

Hank gestured behind him. “The only window is that one and it’s closed,” he replied casually, glaring daggers at Connor.

Connor just kept on smiling.

“Right, well, as I was saying-”

Davidson stopped again as Connor ran both of his hands up along the man’s neck and across his face. Davidson shuddered.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Davidson?”

“Yes, yes,” Davidson replied impatiently. He opened his briefcase, rummaging until he found a sizeable stack of papers, tied neatly together with string. “Now-”

He stopped dead as the papers were pulled from his hand and tossed onto the desk. To Hank, everything looked completely normal, even though he was quite ready to chase Connor from the room. To Davidson, of course, the stack of papers had just taken a life of their own.

“Did you see that?” he whispered, voice all but gone.

“See what, Mr. Davidson?” Hank asked through gritted teeth. He had to act natural.

“The papers just- Just-”

Connor leaned in close to the man’s ear.

“Are you quite alright, sir?” he murmured.

Davidson froze, eyes growing wide as his chair slowly turned. Connor gave him a saccharine smile.

“Only you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

With an unholy shriek, Davidson leapt from his chair and out of the room, forgetting all about his briefcase.

“Connor, what in God’s name do you think you’re _doing_?” he hissed.

Connor shrugged his shoulders innocently. “Tell me truthfully that you didn’t find that funny and I’ll apologise.”

Hank couldn’t help himself. He started laughing, the loudest and longest he’d laughed in a long time.

“He’ll never set foot in this house again thanks to you,” he said, tears forming in his eyes.

Connor had a wicked glint in his eye. “That was the plan.”

“He paid very well, you know,” Hank told him, still trying and failing to sound upset.

“Yes, and I can see that you’re in desperate need of money, Mr. Anderson,” Connor retorted, raising an eyebrow.

Before Hank could say anything more, Connor was leaning in, gentle hands fixing Hank’s tie that had fallen slightly askew. Hank suddenly felt his throat grow very tight.

“Con-”

The door swung open before he could say anything more. Martha was standing in the doorway, wringing her hands with a worried expression on her face.

“Mr. Anderson, is everything alright?” she asked. “Mr. Davidson just flew out of here as if the Devil himself were after him.”

“Oh, you know him, he’s always been the theatrical type,” Hank replied breezily.

Connor’s hands were still on his tie.

Martha peered at him over her glasses, then shook her head with a sigh. “Always did find him strange,” she said, still looking at Hank as if she suspected something.

“Yes, well, that’ll be all, Martha. Thank you,” Hank said, trying a little too hard to act casual.

Martha raised her eyebrows, but said no more, closing the door behind her.

Hank turned his attention back to Connor, who was now sitting in Davidson’s seat, long legs draped over the arm of it. He looked the very picture of innocence.

“From now on, you’re to stay out of this office when I’m working,” Hank said sternly, arranging the paperwork on his desk.

Connor just smiled.

\--

Hank wasn’t the most active person in the town’s social circles, but he was well enough liked, and had a decent number of friends and acquaintances. Around the same time each summer, he and Elena would throw a dinner party for their friends. It was always more Elena’s idea than his, but he did enjoy it himself, and loved seeing how happy it made her. Even after her death, it was one of the few things that had stayed constant. Hank knew that she would have liked that.

So when he had mentioned it to Ben, he’d expected the usual response.

“Ms. Adams will be attending, I hope?” he’d asked instead.

“Lucy? Unless my memory is failing, you’re married,” Hank had replied shortly.

Ben feigned a hurt look. “Can’t a man ask an innocent question?”

“Of course he can. You, on the other hand, are acting anything but.”

Ben was definitely up to something. Something told him that it involved him, and something else told him that he wasn’t going to like it.

He mentioned it in passing to Connor one night.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “Scaring the wits out of hellish clients is one thing, but my friends-”

Connor shook his head. “Don’t worry yourself, I understand. Sometimes a man needs to spend time with his living friends,” he said reassuringly, although he couldn’t quite meet Hank’s gaze. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

“Connor-”

“You know, I’m beginning to wonder how my name would sound when you aren’t reprimanding me.”

Hank suddenly felt heat rise up the back of his neck, and Connor laughed.

“I won’t be there, I promise.”

\--

The evening of the dinner party came around quickly enough. Everything had been set up as usual, but Hank couldn’t get Ben’s cryptic comments about Lucy out of his mind. He liked Lucy well enough. She was a handsome woman, charming, friendly, and very well-liked by those who knew her. Hank had met her a few years ago while working a case, and she and Elena had gotten along famously. When Elena had died, Lucy had gone above and beyond the call of duty of a friend, and Hank could never thank her enough for that, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he was romantically interested in her.

So when Ben’s wife, Sarah, strolled in arm and arm with Lucy, Hank immediately pulled Ben to the side.

“What are you up to?” he asked under his breath before Ben could even open his mouth.

Ben just smiled. “Not a thing, my dear boy, not a thing. Shall we?” he asked, gesturing towards the dining room.

Hank didn’t believe him for a second, but it was never a good idea to get into an argument with Ben. He was far too good at deflecting the blame, and through their years of friendship, Hank had learned that the hard way.

\--

Dinner went smoothly, despite Ben’s constant attempts to steer Hank’s attention towards Lucy. Hank had attempted to kick him under the table and upset the gravy boat, and now he was reduced to merely glaring daggers at his friend, who, very conveniently, seemed completely unable to give Hank any eye contact at all.

Hank stood up, just as Ben was about to open his mouth.

“You’re all welcome to join me in the parlour when you’re good and ready. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go see a man about a dog,” he said with a smile.

His guests laughed as he left, trying to put as much distance between himself and Ben as possible, if only for a moment.

He poured himself as large a measure of whiskey as he could manage without his guests wondering about his emotional well-being.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Ben is trying to play Cupid for us,” Lucy said in a low voice.

Hank laughed. For the briefest moment he found it strange that he wasn’t startled by her sudden presence behind him, but then living with a ghost would sharpen a man’s senses.

“Oh, you know Ben. Tact is his middle name,” Hank replied, “Can I offer you a drink?”

“Well, it would be rude to refuse a gentleman when he’s offered so politely,” Lucy said with a smile.

Hank poured Lucy a drink, handing her the glass.

“To your health and mine,” she said jokingly before taking a drink.

As much as he wasn’t fond of how Ben had been going about his little plan, Hank had to admit, Lucy was very easy to talk to. That was one of the things that Hank had always liked about her. Even so, he made no mention of any of their conversation to Ben. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right.

“Still, it may seem impolite to dash dear Ben’s efforts, don’t you think?” Lucy asked with a coy smile.

Hank smiled, heat rising in his cheeks. “I do,” he replied.

“Dinner wouldn’t be amiss.”

“We just had dinner,” Hank joked.

“You know what I mean,” Lucy replied, playfully slapping Hank’s arm. She didn’t remove her hand from his arm, and Hank found that he didn’t mind at all.

A sudden roar of music shook them both from their conversation.

“That’ll be the radio, one moment,” Hank said breezily, crossing the room to turn it off again. “Newfangled technology, I don’t think I’ll ever be used to it.”

The conversation carried on as normal. Lucy didn’t seem to expect a thing, and of course, why would she? But something was nagging at Hank in the back of his mind. He pushed it aside, concentrating on Lucy. She really was handsome, now that Hank could look at her properly, with hazel eyes and long brown hair styled loosely into a high bun. She’d never married, dedicating herself to her family rather starting her own, and many people in the town, the old-fashioned ones who would whisper behind gloved hands after Sunday service, called her a “free spirit”. It wasn’t a compliment, but she paid them no mind, and it was something that Hank admired about her. This was the 20st century, surely they were a little beyond such outdated nonsense?

The others soon joined them, and the hours passed them by quick enough, although Hank found that his attention rarely strayed from Lucy, and it didn’t take him long to realise that it was mutual.

Lucy glanced at the clock. “Goodness, is that the time? I really must be going.”

“Shall I walk you to the door?” Hank asked, and Lucy nodded.

She said her goodbyes to the room, and Hank escorted her to the main hall, stopping at the door.

“I had a wonderful time,” she said, her eyes bright, “Really.”

“Me too,” Hank replied sincerely.

“Perhaps we can have dinner again sometime?” Lucy asked, her tone hopeful.

“I’d like that.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Anderson.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Adams.”

As soon as the door closed, Ben appeared by his side as if from nowhere.

“Well?” he asked with a smug air of self-satisfaction. “I knew-”

“Unless you want to spend every dinner party for the foreseeable future out on the lawn, I wouldn’t bother finishing that sentence,” Hank replied, a little smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Ben hmphed, but said no more.

\--

“How was dinner?” Connor asked the next afternoon.

Hank raised an eyebrow. “As if you don’t know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nice try. The radio. You were in here last night, weren’t you?”

Connor looked hurt. “I promised that I wouldn’t be here, and I wasn’t. You do believe me, don’t you?”

If Hank was honest with himself, no, he didn’t believe Connor at all. But since no harm had come to the night, he figured that he’d let it slide just this once.

“Of course I do, I just had to be sure,” Hank lied.

Connor immediately relaxed. “Good. So, how did it go?”

“Oh, it went about as well as could be expected, with Ben’s meddling.”

“Meddling?”

“He seems to be under the impression that I don’t leave the house enough, and I need to start being more social. And at my age too.” Hank sighed. “But then, maybe he’s right. Maybe I do need to start socialising more.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing,” Connor countered.

“Well, yes, of course, but you know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure that I do.”

“Living people, Connor,” Hank said gently.

“Oh.”

Hank immediately felt as if he’d kicked a puppy.

“Not that I don’t value with we have,” he said quickly, “It’s just…Maybe it’s time that I move on, in certain aspects of my life. You understand.”

Connor smiled, but to Hank, it looked forced.

“Of course I do. You need more than…You need more of a social life. It would be silly to think otherwise.”

“We can still spend time together, this won’t change everything,” Hank said gently.

Connor was still smiling, and something really didn’t seem right at all.

“Are you alright, Connor?”

Connor nodded. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Hank replied.

Something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite place what it was.

\--

It didn’t happen all at once, but gradually, over time, Hank began to notice that Connor appeared less and less. They got along about as well as ever, but Connor seemed distant somehow, and Hank had an easier time counting the days that he hadn’t seen Connor over the days that he had. He thought back to something that Connor had said in the first few weeks of them knowing each other – about being there for him as a friend. Perhaps forces unknown had realised how lonely Hank was, before he’d even noticed himself, and Connor had been there to fill the void, until such times as he could fill it for himself.

Still, he found himself missing their late night conversations, but perhaps it was for the best. Lately, he had been spending more time with Lucy, and there was something about her that he couldn’t quite describe. No one could hear wedding bells, exactly, but he did find her company enjoyable. They’d take walks together, talking for so long that neither of them would even notice the hours ticking by.

But it wasn’t how it was with Elena.

_Or Connor_, Hank found himself thinking on more than one occasion, to his own surprise.

It was something that he’d noticed and tried to dismiss, a few too many times for his own liking. Certain things Lucy would do or say, and Hank would find himself thinking about Connor. On one occasion, he’d slipped up and mentioned him.

“Who’s Connor?” Lucy had asked.

“Oh, an old friend from a long time ago,” Hank answered casually, and neither of them had said any more about it.

But it left Hank thinking, far more than he’d have liked and about things he didn’t quite understand.

What was this obsession with Connor, all of a sudden?

_It isn’t an obsession, _he corrected himself sternly, _Connor is a friend and that’s all._

Then why did he feel as though he’d lost someone important?

Hank pushed it aside. He couldn’t talk to Connor about it, nor could he talk to Lucy, and it seemed as if he would be trapped with it forever. Since Connor seemed intent on disappearing for longer periods of time, all he could do was focus himself on Lucy. Wasn’t it better to focus on a real-life person, than a ghost? It made sense to him.

Even so, Hank couldn’t stop the feeling that he was making a mistake, and he hadn’t the faintest idea why.

\--

After the first dinner together and the incident with the radio, Hank had been keen to keep Lucy from the house as much as possible, for fear of any more interruptions. But since Connor had been absent quite a lot as of late, Hank thought it safe to invite Lucy over one evening.

Dinner went uninterrupted, and Hank dared ask if she would like to stay for a drink or two. She’d agreed, and the two were making their way to the parlour when there was a loud thump upstairs.

“What was that?” Lucy asked, looking up at the ceiling.

“Probably just Martha,” Hank replied in a reassuring tone. He didn’t think it wise to mention that Martha’s bedroom was downstairs and she would long be in bed by now. And it was never a good time to mention that one’s house was haunted.

Lucy turned her attention back to Hank with a smile, although she looked a little nervous.

He held the door open for her, and she thanked him as she entered the parlour. Hank felt somewhat strange, for a number of reasons. For starters, up until recently, this was not something that “respectable” people did, inviting unmarried women into their homes of an evening. But then Hank had never really given a damn about what most people thought of him. Let them gossip, he’d be giving them something to do. But…there was something else. As he watched Lucy cross the room, her eyes trying to take everything in, he felt a pang of guilt. But he knew Elena would never want him to be unhappy, especially not for her sake. And he knew deep down, that if roles had been reversed, he wouldn’t want her to be miserable either.

And then he realised that that wasn’t where the guilt was coming from. He took a deep breath, pushing the thought to one side, and closed the door behind him.

“Can I fix you a drink?” Hank asked.

Lucy turned her attention to him. “That would be nice.”

Hank poured them both a drink, handing a glass to Lucy. She thanked him with a smile, settling herself in one of the high-backed armchairs.

_Connor’s chair_, Hank immediately thought.

He had barely sat down himself when a pile of books fell from one of the shelves onto the floor. Lucy jumped, knocking a good deal of her sherry down her dress.

“Oh, God, are you alright? I’ve been meaning to get that shelf seen to, it’s always doing that.”

Hank looked at the bookcase. From what he could see, there was not a thing wrong with it. He sat on the edge of the couch next to Lucy’s chair, setting her glass aside and offering her the handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat. Lucy took it, and Hank saw her little flinch as their hands touched.

Lucy focused her attention on the red stain across the skirt of her dress.

“It’s a good thing it’s a dark colour,” she said with a nervous little laugh.

She looked up at Hank as she spoke. Her face was slightly flushed, and a strand of her hair had fallen loose across her face. Hank reached forward to tuck it behind her ear, and she didn’t stop him. He could feel himself leaning closer, and he knew she was too.

Lucy shrieked as something heavy smashed on the other side of the room. Hank whipped his head around in a panic. A large ornate vase was lying broken next to the shelves of books. A vase that had originally been on the other side of the room.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Lucy nodded shakily. “I’m fine, that just- It startled me.”

“There’s a horrible draft coming from the ceiling,” Hank lied, hoping to God Lucy hadn’t noticed where the vase had originally been. “It’s not the first vase I’ve lost to it. This house is falling down around me.”

Lucy laughed softly. “If you don’t mind, Hank, I think I should be heading home now.”

Hank nodded. “I think we’ve both had more than enough excitement for one night,” he said, helping Lucy to her feet.

“I had a wonderful time,” she said as they stopped at the front door, and she sounded sincere.

“Let me walk you home, it’s the least I can do,” Hank offered.

“Really, that’s quite alright, I haven’t far to walk,” she replied, quite insistent. She stopped briefly as she stepped out on the porch.

“Perhaps another time?” she asked, and Hank smiled, taking her hand in his and briefly lifting it to his lips. He could see the rise of colour in her cheeks before she turned to walk down the front steps to the house.

“Goodnight, Mr. Anderson,” she called over her shoulder.

“Goodnight, Ms. Adams.”

Hank quietly shut the door, locking it before proceeding back to the parlour. Someone had a lot of explaining to do.

“Connor! I know you can hear me, and I want you to show yourself right now.”

He was having a hard time keeping his voice down. Looking at the state of the vase in shards on the floor, he was furious. It was expensive for one thing, and more importantly, what if Lucy had been hurt?

“Connor!” Hank raised his voice as far as he dared.

Eventually Connor appeared, his expression equal amounts nervous and guilty.

“Just what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Hank hissed.

He pointed at the broken vase.

“Is this funny to you?”

“Hank, please, let me explain,” Connor replied in a hurry.

Something about his worried tone made Hank stop. He had far more to say, but he just nodded with a grunt.

“It wasn’t intentional, I can assure you,” Connor began.

“Could have fooled me,” Hank snapped, but he forced himself to hold his tongue after that.

Connor was going to explain himself. This should be good.

“I, um, when I heard that you’d arrived home from with- with Lucy, I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see her, so I hid in here. She’s…She’s very pretty.”

Hank couldn’t help but notice how halted Connor sounded, as if he was forcing himself to speak. Or rather, as if he was holding something back.

“Something happened, when I- when the two of you were together, like a surge of energy. I don’t have the proper words to explain it, but it was as if something had shot out of me, and that’s why the books fell, and the- the vase. Oh, Hank, I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t scare her away.”

Hank had no idea what to make of any of this, but Connor seemed so sincere, and he _did _look sorry. He sighed.

“Look, it’s- There was no harm done. It was just a vase, it sat there collecting dust, so it’s not much of a loss. And Lucy…Well, I don’t think you quite scared her away.”

Something changed in Connor’s face, but it was so minute that Hank barely caught it. He smiled.

“That’s wonderful, Hank, I’m…I’m so glad.”

Hank just nodded. “Right, well, thank you for explaining yourself. I’ll, uh, I’ll get this mess cleaned up and-”

“Oh no, please, let me,” Connor interrupted, “It’s the least I can do for ruining your evening.”

“Alright, I- Just be careful, okay? I don’t need anyone seeing pieces of vase floating around the house.”

Connor laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I will be.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Hank,” Connor called as he left.

It must have been Hank’s imagination, but Connor sounded…wistful. As if there was something else he’d wanted to say. He pushed it to the back of his mind as he climbed the stairs. He was tired, and the last hour taken a lot out of him. He just needed to get some sleep, and things would be back to normal in the morning.

But something worried him. Something that Connor had said, about wanting to see Lucy. Hank knew that Connor had been in the room the first night she’d visited, even if he still wouldn’t admit to turning the radio on. And now this. Just what was going on?

He tried to distract himself with thoughts of Lucy as he got into bed, and he smiled to himself. She really was a lovely woman. His eyes fell closed, and her face seemed to change. Before he drifted off, it was Connor’s face he saw.


	3. Chapter 3

Connor was nowhere to be found the next day. As promised, the vase had been cleaned up, and the books had been put back. Hank tried to pay it no mind, everyone needed their space now and again, even the dead, he supposed. Besides, he was probably still embarrassed after last night.

Something was nagging at Hank. What was it Connor had said, a ‘surge of energy’? Why on Earth would that happen, and why last night? He supposed Connor was the best person to ask, and since he was intent on staying out of sight, Hank eventually forgot about it. He found himself thinking about Lucy, and when would be the appropriate time to speak to her again. Perhaps after a few days, let the excitement of the night before pass first. He had to admit, he did like her. He wasn’t as if he was in love, but she was charming and pretty, and she knew how to hold her own in a conversation.

He just hoped, with enough time, that his thoughts would stop drifting back to Connor.

\--

A week or so passed before Hank saw Connor again. He was sitting in the hallway absentmindedly petting Sumo, who didn’t at all seem to mind that Connor wasn’t alive anymore, now that he was getting something from it. Hank stood and watched them for a moment, hands in the pockets of his trousers.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were avoiding me,” he said gently.

Connor quickly looked up, startled. Sumo gave a quiet _boof _to acknowledge Hank, before putting his head back down on his paws.

“Hank, I- Of course not, why would you say such a thing?” he asked.

Hank raised an eyebrow. “Well, we used to see each other nearly every day, and now it seems I have to sneak up on you or tell you off to get your attention.”

Connor looked lost for words. “I…”

“What’s wrong? You can be honest with me.”

“It’s…Oh, Hank, I can’t say it. I don’t want you to think less of me.”

Hank knelt next to Connor, running a hand through Sumo’s fur.

“I promise I won’t.”

Connor looked conflicted, as if regretting ever opening his mouth.

“It’s…It’s Lucy.”

Hank had had his suspicions, but it certainly helped to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.

“Ah,” was all he said.

“Oh, I didn’t want to say anything, it sounds so childish-”

“It’s not childish, it’s completely understandable. You’ve gone from years of being alone to having a friend, and now you’re afraid that I’m going to leave you, is that it?”

“Yes,” Connor replied, but he sounded halted. “That’s it.”

Hank smiled. “You know that what Lucy and I have and what you and I have are two different things. She won’t come between our friendship, I promise. It’s just…Well, it can be difficult at times, considering-”

“Yes,” Connor interrupted, almost snappily.

Hank held his tongue. He knew that subject was still touchy for Connor, and really he shouldn’t be angry with him.

“Well then, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Right,” Connor replied, but he didn’t sound so sure.

A door opened, and Martha’s head peeped out.

“I thought I heard your voice. Is everything alright?” she asked.

Hank looked over to find Connor gone. He sighed, running a hand over Sumo’s ears.

“Everything’s fine, Martha,” he said, “I was just talking to the dog.”

\--

Christmastime at the Anderson household had always been a grand affair. Elena adored the holidays, and Hank did too, although he could have done without just as many of the decorations that she’d insisted they needed. Friends and family would visit over the month of December, and the house was always full of life.

The first year without Elena, Hank had refused to even acknowledge the holiday. He made sure that the household servants were given their usual leave and bonuses, but the house all but went into darkness until the new year came around. Eventually, Hank found the will to get back into the spirit of the holiday, and everything carried on as best it could.

Connor had started showing his face a little more as of late, and Hank found himself glad of it. It was nice to have his friend back again.

“I’ve always loved Christmas,” he said as he watched Hank wind tinsel around the banisters of the staircase.

Connor sat at the top of the stairs, rummaging through the boxes of decorations quietly so as not to draw any more attention to himself. He was no longer allowed to help after Hank had had to explain to a passing maid that she hadn’t seen a floating bauble, he’d just dropped it and she’d jumped to conclusions. It was a weak lie, but Hank had met enough liars in his line of work to have become somewhat convincing at it himself.

“It’s a lot of work,” Hank replied as he finished attaching one piece of tinsel and started on another.

“Don’t lie to me, Mr. Anderson, I can see the little smile on your face,” Connor teased, giving Hank’s shoulder a prod.

“You’ve seen right through my ruse,” Hank laughed.

“Oh, look!”

Something fell at Hank’s feet. He looked down to find a sprig of mistletoe.

“Oh no,” he said immediately.

“Why not?”

“That damn thing causes mayhem every year. I’m not spending another holiday being kissed senseless,” Hank griped, struggling with the tinsel.

“Oh, wouldn’t that be just terrible?”

Something about Connor’s tone seemed strange. Not quite as if he was joking. But when Hank turned to look at him, he had already busied himself with the contents of another box.

“We always hung mistletoe in our house,” Connor said, still digging through decorations, “It didn’t quite feel the same without it.”

Hank sighed and picked the little plant up from the ground.

“If it’ll make you happy,” he said, pretending to sound upset.

\--

“There.”

Hank stepped down from the folding ladder to admire his work. The mistletoe was secured to the lowest part of the chandelier, as per Connor’s insistence.

“You can’t hide it away, it ruins the fun of it,” he’d said.

Well, Hank couldn’t say he hadn’t tried.

“It’s lovely,” Connor murmured, casting his gaze down to meet Hank’s.

For some reason, Hank found himself unable to look away. Connor took the tiniest step closer, and Hank just watched him. It was as if he couldn’t say or do anything.

No, that wasn’t quite right. It was as if he didn’t _want _to say or do anything.

Connor took another little step closer, and Hank honestly couldn’t tell which one of them was leaning in now.

“Mr. Anderson?”

Hank started. Connor was gone, and Martha was standing behind him.

“Your guests have begun arriving,” she said.

She spotted the boxes of decorations at the top of the stairs.

“Honestly, you shouldn’t be doing that alone,” she chided, as if he was still a child.

“We still have plenty of time, not to worry. Thank you, Martha,” he replied, trying not to sound as shaky as he felt.

He had never been more grateful for company. A whole night of talking and drinking and music, and no time whatsoever to think about-

He found himself avoiding Lucy, and he couldn’t place why. He wasn’t avoiding her, he kept telling himself. He just kept finding himself caught up in other conversations, that was all. After a while, a gradual lull came, and Lucy sought him out.

“May I speak to you in private?” she asked.

“Of course,” Hank replied, ignoring the hopeful glance that Ben was casting their way.

They stepped out of the room and into the main hall.

“I hope you don’t find this too forward,” she said shyly. “But I noticed…”

She pointed to the mistletoe hanging from the chandelier above them.

Hank smiled. “It’s hardly forward at all.”

“To tell you the truth, I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a while now, but it never seemed as if there was a right time.”

“Now is as good a time as any,” he murmured.

Lucy leaned in close, her hand on Hank’s arm to steady herself. Their lips had barely touched when there was a horrible smashing sound above them, and the room was plunged into darkness. Hank quickly pulled Lucy out of the way of the few falling shards of glass from the chandelier.

“The lights have blown,” he murmured.

“It feels like something is trying to keep us apart,” Lucy said with a shaky laugh.

_Oh, if only you knew._

“Sure seems that way, doesn’t it?” Hank said was a sigh.

The door opened to the parlour, casting a flood of light out into the hall.

“What happened?” Ben asked.

“The damn lights blew,” Hank replied, guiding Lucy back to the parlour with his arm around her shoulder.

Ben’s face immediately grew concerned when he saw Lucy’s shaken expression.

“Are you okay?”

Lucy nodded, and Hank let Ben lead back inside.

“I’ll be right back, I just need to clean up the mess,” he said.

The door closed, throwing him back into not quite full darkness. He had a lot on his mind, and even more that he was going to say, but right now wasn’t the time.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he was putting an end to this.

Hank had insisted on taking Lucy home that night, and this time she didn’t refuse. He wanted to make sure that she was okay, and really as unshaken as she’d insisted she was, but it wasn’t just that. He needed to be out of that damn house for a while. He needed to compose himself.

Connor came to him the next day, and Hank was surprised. Like a petulant child, he always hid whenever he’d done something wrong.

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” he said without so much as a ‘hello’.

Connor wrung his hands together nervously. “I know, I-”

Hank couldn’t hold his tongue any longer.

“I don’t know what has gotten into you, but you are a guest in my home. _My_ home, Connor, not yours, although you seem damn determined to change that. I can’t help it that I summoned you, I can’t help it that you’re stuck here, and- God, I wish-”

Connor’s eyes were beginning to water. “Hank, please don’t- Please don’t say it,” he whispered.

“I wish I’d never went to see that damn medium!” Hank barked, and Connor flinched. “It was fun to begin with, and I liked having you around, but now you’re a damn nuisance that’s getting worse as time goes on. I need you out of this house.”

Connor was in tears now. “I can’t leave, I’m trapped here!”

“Then I’ll find a way to get rid of you,” Hank told him, and the coldness in his voice startled even him_._ “You’re dangerous, and I can’t have you anymore. I’m trying to start again. After everything that’s happened, everything I’ve told you, why? Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

“You know why!” Connor blurted out, his eyes wide with fear when he’d realised what he’d said.

Hank’s jaw clicked. “Please, enlighten me. What is it that I’m supposed to know?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“You act like you and- and Lucy are so madly in love and you’ll live happily ever after, but that’s not true and we both know it.”

“And how’s that, Connor? Just what in the hell are you trying to say?”

“Are you really that blind?” Connor all but shouted.

By this point, Hank had had enough.

“Until you’re willing to talk to me like a damn adult, this conversation is over.”

He turned to leave, and the door’s lock slid into place. He tried to push it back, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Connor, enough, let me out,” he demanded, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

Perhaps angering a ghost wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, but enough was enough. Connor couldn’t keep throwing tantrums whenever he pleased.

“No,” was all Connor said, and Hank turned to face him.

“Open the door!” he shouted.

An ornament whizzed by, colliding with the wall across the room and smashing. Hank was terrified now, and he had no idea what Connor was capable of, but he’d seen enough to know that it was nothing he could ever protect himself from. Books were falling from shelves, and the furniture began to shake.

“Connor, open the damn door!”

_“No!” _

The voice had come from Connor, but it sounded nothing like him. It was an unholy shriek that left Hank shaking against the wood of the door. Connor had fallen to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably, his hands fisted into his hair.

“Connor…” Hank found the courage – or the idiocy, he wasn’t sure which – to say.

He kept his voice low, as if he were talking to a frightened animal. He was beyond terrified, but it looked as if…It looked as if Connor was holding something back. Something much bigger.

Hank heard the lock slide back in the door behind him.

“Go,” Connor sobbed, “Go, please, while I still have some control over myself.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Hank wrenched the door open, not looking back as he ran downstairs, out the front door and into the garden. He didn’t stop until he’d reached the entrance gates, all but collapsing on the gravel in fear. People passing by were giving him odd looks, but he didn’t care, barely even registered them.

He managed to pull himself to his feet after a time, looking back at the house. He couldn’t go back, but he couldn’t leave the house unattended. What if Connor completely snapped? What if he hurt someone? He couldn’t live with that on his conscience. He dusted himself off, heading back towards the house.

“Oh, Mr. Anderson,” one of the servants, Stephanie, called as he climbed the stairs, “Is everything alright? I heard noises coming from upstairs.”

“Everything’s fine,” Hank told her in as reassuring tone as he could muster, “Not to worry.”

She didn’t seemed convinced, but she didn’t press him, which Hank was grateful for. He entered his bedroom, wedging a book in the door. Not that that would deter Connor if he were to do anything, but it made Hank feel a little safer. The room had been tidied, and it looked as though nothing had ever happened.

Hank spotted a piece of paper folded on his bed, just like the first time they’d met. He sat down on the bed, unfolding the page.

_Hank,_

_I know that you could never forgive me for the trouble that I’ve caused you, and Lucy. You deserve happiness, and I can never apologise enough for what I’ve done. I wish I could explain, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand. I’m not sure that I understand it myself. I think it would be in your best interest to have me removed from the house. Perhaps there is something better for me after this. I know that there is something better for you after me._

_Connor_

Hank stared at the note long after he’d finished reading it. He crossed the room to his desk, looking for a pen and a fresh sheet of paper. He thought for a moment.

_Meet me in the parlour at seven o’clock. We need to talk._

There was far more that he wanted to write, but he would say it all in the evening. He folded the page, leaving it on his bed before he left.

\--

Connor was already in the parlour when Hank arrived, curled up in his usual spot by the fire. He jumped to his feet as he heard the door open.

“Sit,” Hank said, as he sat down across from him.

Connor did as he was told. Hank couldn’t help but notice how pale he looked. No, pale wasn’t the word for it. He looked as if he was fading away.

Now that they were in the same room, Hank suddenly had no idea what he was supposed to say. He let out a tired sigh, gesturing to Connor.

“What’s been the matter with you lately?” he asked, as if Connor had just been in a bad mood as of late, and not trying to destroy his property.

Connor fidgeted, not quite able to look Hank in the eye. “I…I don’t know how to explain it,” he said softly.

“Try. You owe me that.”

Connor nodded. “I’ve very much enjoyed living with you, Hank. I’ve been lost for a very long time, and I haven’t been able to move on. It’s been a lonely few decades. And then I found you.” He looked up at Hank. “I don’t mean what I do, I can’t- I can’t control it. And I know that sounds like the worst excuse in the world, but I truly don’t. When I see you and Lucy together, I…Something wells up inside me, and I feel like I’m dying all over again. Neither of you deserve this. You deserve to be happy together, and I’m only getting in the way.”

And suddenly it all came crashing down on Hank. He felt as if his heart was being ripped out of his chest, and Connor smiled sadly.

“I’m in love with you, Hank,” he whispered.

Hank stood up. He needed to walk. He needed to pace. Most of all, he needed to look anywhere but at Connor. He couldn’t do this. This was insane. He knew there was something wrong – that much Connor had made abundantly clear – but this? This was not at all what he had been expecting. He needed a drink. That he could do. He poured himself a large measure of scotch, sinking quite a bit of it before he could even think of continuing this conversation.

He’d heard Connor wrong. That was it. That was all it was. He’d heard him wrong, and there was another explanation for all of this. There had to be. Connor couldn’t be in love with him. He couldn’t.

Hank finished the glass before he could find the courage to sit back down. Connor was still in his chair, nervously arranging his hands in his lap. He looked up at Hank nervously.

“You’re…” Hank started, but the rest of the words got lost in his throat.

He forced himself to try again. “You’re…in love…with me.”

Connor nodded. “I wish I wasn’t. Truly I do. But when I’m with you, I…”

He paused, as if trying to find the right words to express his emotions.

“I feel alive again.”

Hank buried his head in his hands.

“This is not happening. This can’t be happening.”

He jumped to his feet, the need to pace growing worse due to the scotch.

“You’re in love with me. You. A ghost. A fucking ghost is love with me. Have I gone mad?”

“Hank, I-” Connor started, but Hank held a hand up to silence him.

He stopped, hands clenching the back of the couch. He suddenly felt very dizzy.

“How dare you,” he said, his voice low and shaky.

He looked up at Connor.

“How fucking dare you. You have the nerve to tell me this after everything you’ve put me through. The rage you’ve shown me, that you’ve inflicted on me. And now you expect me to forgive you because you’re _in love with me?”_

Connor rose to his feet, standing in front of Hank. He tentatively reached out, brushing a hand against Hank’s cheek. Hank didn’t stop him, just watched him.

“I never meant for any of this to happen,” Connor said softly, daring to trail his hand into Hank’s hair, brushing it from his eyes. “You were my friend, and I was so glad of you. To have someone I could talk to, and laugh with, after all this time. But I never meant to fall for you.”

He rested his hand on Hank’s cheek, his thumb brushing his skin softly, like a gentle breeze.

“All I want is for you to be happy,” he murmured with a sad smile, “Even if it means that it isn’t with me.”

The room felt as if it was spinning. It was too warm, even with Connor so close to him. Hank couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. How could any of this be happening? It just didn’t make sense, no matter how hard Hank tried.

Connor took a small step closer, holding Hank’s gaze. Hank slowly raised a hand, wrapping his fingers around Connor’s wrist. He felt so solid under his grasp. Connor tilted his head up, and Hank couldn’t bring himself to move, to step away, to tell Connor to leave. All he could do was stand there, and let him move closer. They were so close now, their noses almost touching, and Hank wanted to blame the drink, the whirlwind of emotions running through him in that moment, Connor, anything, for what he was happening, but all he could do was stand there. He let his eyes fall closed, and then Connor was kissing him, so gently that Hank could barely feel him. He felt like cold water against his mouth, like a faint breath of wind on a summer’s day. It was strange and pleasant and unsettling all at once, and Hank couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

Connor pulled back, dark eyes watching Hank closely.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered with a tremble in his voice, and Hank found himself shaking his head.

“Don’t be,” he replied, and he leaned in to kiss Connor again.

Connor let out a little noise of surprise, letting Hank take the lead. Hank pulled him close, sliding his arms around his waist, and Connor’s arms were around his neck soon after. Hank had lived a fairly long life and seen and done a lot of things in that time, but this was most definitely the strangest experience he’d ever had. He knew he shouldn’t, this was more wrong than he could ever put into words, but Connor felt so nice against him, in his arms. He felt so solid, as if he were a real person. And then an image of Lucy’s face flashed into his mind, and he quickly pulled away, as if he’d been burned.

Connor looked at him, confused.

“We can’t-” Hank tried to say, so many words fighting to get out of his mouth at once. “We shouldn’t have- God, what the hell am I _doing?”_

He was furious all of a sudden. How could he do that? How could he do that to poor Lucy, the woman he was supposed to be in love with? But was he ever really in love with her, or was she just a pleasant distraction?

And what did that make Connor? Was he just a distraction too? No, he was…Hank didn’t want to admit it to himself, but Connor…was so much more than that. In the short time he’d been in Hank’s life, Connor had done more for him than almost anyone he’d ever known, and he never asked anything in return.

And Lucy…Hank cared for her, of course he did, he’d be a liar if he said she wasn’t special to him. But it wasn’t the same, and it was only now that he was beginning to realise it. And that was what was making him so angry. It was himself. He’d been so blind to his own feelings, to Connor’s feelings, that he’d made of all this happen. And now he was going to have to break someone’s heart.

“Connor, I…” He sighed heavily. “We can’t do this. It doesn’t make any sense for us to…What kind of life are we supposed to lead together? You’re not even…You’re _dead,_ for Christ’s sake. How are we…”

Hank was trying and failing to find the right words.

“I understand,” Connor replied. His voice was barely more than a whisper, and when Hank looked at him, he looked just as he had before – as though he was fading away. He smiled, but Hank knew that it was forced. “Find a way to rid yourself of me, and your life will be just as it was before.”

But they both knew that wasn’t the truth. Connor had changed Hank’s life so much in the short space of time they’d known each other.

“Connor, I-”

Connor shook his head, giving Hank a sad smile.

“Please, Hank. Tomorrow. Find a priest, have the house blessed, do whatever it is you need to do. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

Connor crossed the room before Hank could say anything. When Hank turned around, he was gone.

Hank sat down again, his legs weak. He put his head in his hands, and cried for the first time in a very long time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: please be aware that this chapter has a death in it, as is mentioned in the tags. Again, this story does end happily, but I just wanted to be sure that everyone reading is aware and isn't unnecessarily upset or triggered by this.

When Hank woke the next day, it was with a heavy heart. He had to make a decision, and it wasn’t going to be an easy one. He tried to go about his business as usual, but he found himself distracted at every turn, his mind always returning to the same thing.

Connor was nowhere to be found that day, and Hank was grateful. This would be hard enough as it was. He left for town in the early afternoon, having finally made up his mind.

_You deserve happiness._

Connor’s note. Hank couldn’t stop himself from going over and over it in his mind, but he kept coming back to that one part.

_You deserve happiness together._

With a sigh, Hank knocked the door, his heart hammering in his chest.

The door opened.

“Hank? What a surprise,” Lucy greeted with a smile.

Hank forced a smile onto his face. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“No, not at all. Is everything alright?” She sounded concerned.

“We need to talk.”

No going back now.

\--

He hadn’t told Lucy the truth. At least, not entirely. Something told him that it wouldn’t have gone in his favour. He told her that while he did very much like her, there was someone that he wasn’t quite able to let go of. She had jumped to the conclusion of his late wife, and Hank didn’t exactly correct her. He had to swallow his guilt. He didn’t want to use Elena as a scapegoat, of course he didn’t, but it made more sense than him trying to explain about Connor. And he didn’t want to hurt Lucy any more than he already had to.

She’d hugged him and wished him well as she walked him to the door.

Now came the matter of Connor. What was he to do, or say? He’d hope that by cutting romantic ties with Lucy, it would have stiffened his resolve, but to no avail. The entirety of the walk home, he struggled with his thoughts.

_Tell him how you feel_.

He slipped into the parlour, closing the door behind him.

“Connor?” he called. “I know you’re in here. I need to talk to you.”

In all the time they’d known each other, Hank still wasn’t quite used to someone just appearing out of nowhere in front of him.

“I was hoping to stay out of your way until…” Connor trailed off, before trying again. “I thought I would be gone by now.”

“I’m not getting rid of you.” Hank heard himself say before he even had time to think about it.

His eyes suddenly felt as wide as Connor’s looked.

“What?” Connor breathed.

Hank a rubbed a hand over his face. He’d never felt as tired in his life as he did at that very moment.

“Having you here has been…Well, it’s been a great help. More than I could ever tell you.”

Hank couldn’t bring himself to look Connor in the eye. He didn’t seem to have control over his damn mouth, and he didn’t want to see how Connor was looking at him right now.

“It never once crossed my mind that you might…That you’d be…Well.”

Hank was having a hard time turning his thoughts into words.

“But a lot of what’s happened between us makes sense now, now that I know.”

“We haven’t had the most conventional friendship, I suppose,” Connor dared to say, and Hank laughed.

“No,” he agreed, “No, we haven’t.”

He finally gathered the courage to look at Connor, who was staring at him intently with those dark eyes.

“Lucy and I are no longer together,” he said, and Connor’s eyes widened.

“What? Surely not because of me? Oh, Hank, there must be a way to fix it-”

Hank held a hand up and Connor fell silent.

“It was my choice to make. I explained to her that it wouldn’t be right to continue on when I have feelings for someone else.”

“You can’t mean-”

“I don’t think I realised how I’ve felt about you until now,” Hank murmured, and suddenly, something in the pit of his stomach settled.

As if some part of him, somewhere deep down that he hadn’t even known about had been waiting for him to say those very words.

“You’ve brought joy into my life that I haven’t felt since Elena. I never thought that I could feel like this again. Of course I wish things were different, but…I can’t help how I feel any more than you can.”

Connor held his trembling hands up to his face, as if trying to hide himself.

“What I’m trying to say is that…I love you too.”

And just like that, Connor burst into tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said through his fingers, “I didn’t mean to- But I never- I never-”

Hank said nothing, just pulled Connor into his arms. Eventually he settled, wrapping his arms around Hank in turn.

“You don’t need to apologise anymore,” Hank said softly. “It was my own fault for not realising how you felt sooner. There was a part that kept trying to question our friendship, that perhaps there was more to it. I kept telling myself that Lucy was the right choice, and for a time, I thought I could finally start to believe it. But I was lying to myself. It wasn’t fair on anyone. What I had with her was lovely, but it just wasn’t the same as what we have.”

Connor pulled back slightly to look at Hank.

“Do you really mean that?”

“I’m done lying,” Hank said with a sincere smile.

It didn’t matter which one leaned in first. Not anymore.

\--

Of course, the news didn’t go quite as well with everyone else. Martha kept shaking her head with a sad sigh every time she thought Hank wasn’t looking, and Ben had been all too happy to tell him that he was making a mistake every chance he got.

“She would have made you happy,” he’d said.

“I am happy,” Hank insisted, and even though no one seemed to believe him, he was telling the truth. “Lucy’s a lovely woman. She deserves someone who can give her more than I could.”

Ben shook his head with a sigh, in an almost perfect imitation of Martha.

Hank just rolled his eyes. After all, it didn’t matter whether or not they believed him. For the first time in a long time, he felt happy. Truly happy.

Not that that stopped the waves of dreaded guilt. They still came. But each time they left, they took longer to come back. A part of him felt guilty for what he had done to Lucy, and for leaving behind what could have been. Of course what he was doing made no sense at all. A human in love with a ghost. It was absurd.

He wasn’t the only one who had been thinking about it. Connor had mentioned one night as they lay in bed together.

“Do you think you’ve made a mistake?” he asked softly.

Hank roused himself from the half-sleep he had been falling into.

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you think you’ve made a mistake? In choosing me. I could understand why. After all, I’m not-”

Hank shushed him. “We’ve talked about this. It doesn’t matter one bit to me whether you’re alive or not. A man with more sense might disagree, but I’ve never been the most sensible. And I think you’re starting to realise that.”

Connor smiled shyly. He turned over to look at Hank, dark eyes watching him closely.

“And what if…?” He hesitated. “What if you change your mind?”

Hank took Connor’s hand in his own, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it.

“I haven’t been sure of many things in my life, Connor, but I know that this is one of those things. You’ll just have to trust me on that.”

Connor just looked at him for a moment, before finally nodding.

“I do trust you. More than anything.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

\--

The routine of meeting in the evening came back all too easily, now that they shared a bed. And with that physical closeness came an intimacy of another kind. Connor began to open up more about himself, and he wasn’t as upset by the questions Hank would ask.

“It’s understandable that you would be curious,” he’d said, “After all, it isn’t every day you meet a ghost, is it?”

Even still, Hank always made sure that he wasn’t pushing Connor’s boundaries.

“Do ghosts sleep?” Hank asked as he pulled the covers over himself one night. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you sleep.”

Connor sat next to him with his legs crossed.

“I don’t,” he replied.

Hank stared up at the ceiling, arms behind his head.

“Don’t you get tired?”

Connor shook his head. “I’m not alive, Hank. I don’t feel hunger or fatigue or sickness like you do.”

“You still feel things, though.”

“Emotions are different.”

Connor lay down next to Hank. He gently ran his fingers through Hank’s hair, pushing it from his forehead. They fell into a comfortable silence for a time before Connor spoke again.

“You can ask more questions if you like,” he said, as if he could read Hank’s mind.

“I don’t think I ever asked how old you are,” Hank replied after a moment’s thought.

Here he was, with an honest-to-God ghost in his bed, worrying about the age difference. Sometimes even Hank had a hard time understanding his priorities.

Connor laughed softly. “I’m thirty-one. Or I was.”

“You mean you’ve been-”

“For twenty years. I’m only a few years younger than you, if you think about it.”

Hank smiled, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Well, you hardly look a day of it,” he said as he rolled his eyes.

Connor laughed again.

“Go to sleep,” he said, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Hank closed his eyes, but sleep didn’t took a while to come to him, and he found his mind drifting.

In all of the horror stories he had read growing up, the ghosts had always had the same descriptions. They were always cold, could walk right through anything, and were almost always terrifying. And yet, lying in bed with a man who had been dead for two decades in his arms, Hank found himself thinking that Connor was none of those things at all. He wasn’t cold, closer to a summer’s breeze than ice; he felt almost completely solid, and had become decidedly much less terrifying now that he’d confessed his feelings to Hank. If Hank concentrated on his face, really took in his features, his soft eyes, the curve of his lips, it was as if he were looking into the face of a real live person.

There would always be that little part of him that would worry about the future, but he’d had his chance to rid the house of Connor. He’d made his decision, and here he was. And if he was honest with himself, he was much happier that it had led to this. Of course, it hadn’t always been easy. Hank still dealt with the nagging guilt of moving on from his wife, but it had lessened over the years. He still loved her, and probably always would, but it was different now. It was a fondness for her, and for the memories they’d shared throughout their time together. But with Connor…everything was different.

Hank finally felt his eyes grow heavy, and he drifted off, a soft breeze brushing through his hair.

\--

Hank eventually began growing bolder with his questions over time, and finally gathered the courage to ask the one that both of them had been avoiding.

“What was it like?”

He wasn’t sure how to word it exactly, but Connor already knew.

“I would imagine that it’s different for everyone. Perhaps like falling asleep. For me, it was like being choked.”

Connor saw the colour drain from Hank’s face.

“But then, I was ill,” he added quickly. “I can’t speak for everyone.”

The silence that fell soon became deafening, while Hank struggled with the rest of the questions swimming around in his head. Ones that he both needed the answers to and could easily run from for the rest of his life. It felt impolite to pry, maybe death was still a touchy subject for Connor. But surely if he was uncomfortable, he would say so. With that, Hank dared to ask another question.

“How did it- How did you-?”

It was still a question in Hank’s eyes, and about as far as he was getting with wording it.

“Hank, it’s okay. I’ve begun to make my peace with it, perhaps it’s time that I started talking about it.”

Connor’s voice was soft and reassuring, and Hank felt as if he’d just let out a breath that he’d been holding for a very long time.

“Sorry, it’s just- Well, it’s not as if I know the etiquette for this sort of thing.”

Connor smiled. “I suppose not. It was consumption. I had always been a sickly child. I wasn’t much better as an adult either. I’m surprised that I managed to live as long as I did. I don’t think my complexion now is much different to when I was alive.”

They both laughed, falling into another silence, this one much more comfortable than the last. Something dark crossed Connor’s face. He looked troubled.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Hank asked.

“Are you afraid to die, Hank?”

That stopped Hank in his tracks. It wasn’t something a person was asked often, or at all, and he had never been one to give such things much thought. At least, until he had lost Elena. Then all of a sudden it seemed to be all he could think about.

“I was at first,” he admitted. “When my wife died, I- It was all I thought about, day and night. Did she suffer? Where was she now? Was there anything next? When would my time come? It was endless. But now, I…I can’t say I have that fear anymore. Thanks to you.”

Connor frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, you don’t seem to be having too hard a time of it. You said so yourself, you’ve made peace with it. And I guess knowing that there is something next is a comfort. Takes one of life’s biggest mysteries and lays it to rest. I don’t need to worry about it anymore.”

Hank suddenly felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders, one that he’d been carrying for so long he hadn’t even noticed how much it had been holding him down. All of this, this entire situation, Connor – it was crazy, and he reminded himself as much several times a day. But it was wonderful too, and after all the grief and guilt he’d suffered through, he was certainly grateful for it.

“You must miss her,” Connor said.

It wasn’t a question, but Hank knew that questions lay underneath, and now it seemed that it was Connor’s turn to struggle with what he wanted to say.

“Of course I do, she was the love of my life for so many years,” Hank replied honestly. “There’s a part of me that will likely always love her, but it’s time to move on, learn to live again.”

Connor couldn’t help but laugh.

“What?”

“It just seems ironic, don’t you think? Learning to live again, with a ghost by your side.”

“You know what I mean.”

Connor was still smiling. “I do.

\--

As time went by, Hank grew more distant and reclusive – at least to the outside world. He had never been the biggest socialite, but the people needed something to talk about, and so he became the height of the town’s gossip for quite some time, rumours circulating in hushed tones that he’d gone mad living alone in that old house. His servants, on the contrary, found him to be as pleasant and well-kept as ever, despite the amount of time he seemed to spend by himself. Of course, none of them knew about Connor, nor would they ever, and that was how they both preferred it.

In all the time they had spent together, they never grew tired of one another. There was always something new to learn about each other, or another story to tell. Hank had never once doubted that he had loved his wife with all of his heart, but what he had with Connor was something else entirely. He wasn’t one for believing, but there were times when he would find himself thinking that he and Connor, they were meant to find each other. Two lost souls – in two very different senses of the word – who had found comfort in each other.

Connor would still play the piano for Hank, and try to teach him how to play for himself. Hank would stumble through the notes until Connor would go back to their very first lesson, with Hank’s hands on his as he led them through the song. Connor began to wonder if Hank truly did have difficulty learning how to play, or if he simply wanted to be closer to Connor. He couldn’t say that he minded.

In return, Hank would teach Connor how to dance. He would put on the radio and they’d listen together until a slow song came on, and Hank would extend his hand in an exaggerated manner and ask Connor if he could have this dance. Connor never said no. They’d stumble around the room for a while, laughing until they were sore, until Connor would finally find his footing, and they’d gradually fall into silence, with only the music to fill the room.

Everything seemed perfect, as if it would be that way forever, until Hank fell ill. It was hardly anything at first, just a cough that came and went. But then it became more persistent, until Hank could barely make it through a conversation without his whole body being wracked with the pain of it. The town doctor had tried everything, but nothing seemed to work.

“At least the neighbours will stop wondering why I spend all my time in the house now,” Hank joked to Connor one night before another fit of coughing.

Connor wasn’t amused.

“You should rest,” he said, trying to get Hank to lie down in his bed.

Hank waved him away irritably.

“Will you stop fussing over me? I’ve had it all day from everyone else, I don’t need it from you too.”

Connor looked visibly hurt, and Hank softened.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…Come here,” he said, patting the empty side of the bed.

Connor lay down next to him. Hank sighed tiredly, just managing to suppress another fit of coughing.

“I don’t think I have much time left,” he said finally.

“No, I don’t think so either,” Connor replied.

Hank’s mouth twitched in a bittersweet smile. Of course he could talk to Connor about things like this without worrying about upsetting him. He’d already been through it, after all.

“Are you afraid to die, Hank?” Connor asked in barely more than a whisper.

Hank’s smile widened ever so slightly. He could remember the first time Connor had asked him that very same question, in this very same room. He turned to look at him.

“No,” he answered, with more resolution than he had the last time. “Because I know you’ll be with me.”

Connor smiled, and the low light must have been playing tricks on him, but Hank could have sworn that he could see tears in Connor’s eyes. Connor moved closer, resting his head on Hank’s shoulder.

“Of course I will,” Connor murmured. “I promise.”

\--

In the haze, he sensed people coming and going, some to say last goodbyes, and some just to have something to wail and weep and gossip about in the coming weeks. He paid them no mind, hadn’t the energy to anymore. There was only one person he wanted to see.

He promised that he’d be here.

It was late evening when the last of the visitors were escorted out. Hank had struggled to stay awake all day.

Stephanie drew the curtains, stopping at Hank’s bedside table to turn out the light.

“Don’t,” Hank managed to mutter, “Leave it on.”

Stephanie looked at him with concern. “You need your rest, sir.”

“Please,” Hank insisted. He looked up at her with a small, weary smile. “I’ll be alright.”

The young woman looked as though she wanted to argue, but she held her tongue. She knew even in his weakened state, Hank would only keep arguing, and he needed to keep his strength. She nodded before turning to leave.

Hank lay there in the quiet, watching the shadows the lamp cast across the room, hoping one would flicker, that he’d see something. Someone. But all too soon, Hank was finding sleep harder and harder to fight.

“Don’t fight it anymore. You need your rest.”

Hank blinked, struggling to keep himself awake. “Connor?”

“I’m here.”

Hank felt a cool, soft hand brush his hair from his forehead.

“Where…have you been? I waited…”

“I’ve been here the whole time. I didn’t want to take time away from your visitors.”

“I thought…I thought you’d forgotten…”

“I could never,” Connor murmured, and Hank looked up to find him smiling.

“Connor-”

Connor shook his head. “Whatever it is, it can wait. We’ll have all the time in the world. Go to sleep now.”

Hank nodded with the little energy he had left.

“I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Hank drifted into a sleep with Connor still stroking his hair. Sometime in the early morning, Stephanie came in to check on him. The light was out, and Hank was gone.

\--

When Hank woke up, it was to find himself under the old apple tree at the far end of the field. The dappled sunlight shone through the leaves, and a gentle breeze brushed across his skin. Connor sat next to him, tying daisies in a chain.

“How long was I…?” Hank asked, unsure as to what to say.

“A few hours,” Connor replied.

“And I’m…?”

“Just like me.”

Hank looked down at himself. He didn’t feel any different, and he didn’t look much different. His hands looked younger than they’d been in a long time. He touched his face tentatively.

“I feel different.”

“You look different,” Connor replied.

“Different how?”

“Like the first day I met you.”

Hank scoffed. “Ever the romantic, aren’t you?” he asked, but of course he had no know of disproving it.

Something definitely felt different. Maybe that was what being dead did to you.

Connor tied the last knot in his daisy chain. Hank gently took it from his hands, careful not to break it, and placed it on Connor’s head. Connor just laughed, ducking his head to hide his face.

After all the time they’d spent together, neither of them knew what to say.

“I think this is the first time I’ve seen you outside of the house,” Hank said after a time.

“I thought about that too,” Connor replied, “And I realised something.”

“What’s that?”

“It was never the house that I was attached to.”

Connor turned to look at Hank, a shy smile playing on his lips.

“It was you.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Hank replied with a short laugh, “That’s a lot of pressure on one man. You sure you can put up with me for eternity?”

Connor pretended to think about it, and Hank playfully slapped his arm. He hadn’t expected Connor to feel so solid, and instead of pulling away, he found himself moving closer. Connor did too, leaning in to press his forehead against Hank’s. It had always felt real in some sense before, but this…this was something else. Hank felt as if he was truly seeing Connor for the first time. And he was every bit as beautiful as he was the moment Hank had realised that he’d fallen for him.

Hank the sceptic had fallen in love with a ghost. The town would laugh, if they weren’t mourning his death at this very moment.

“So what happens now?” he asked.

“Whatever we’d like. We have all the time we could ever hope for now. Together.”

Hank pressed another kiss to Connor’s lips.

“You and me, ‘til the end of the world,” he murmured with a smile.

He had to admit, he quite liked the sound of that.

**Author's Note:**

> I worked so hard on this story, and I hope that you enjoyed it. Comments and kudos mean the world to me, especially with a long fic like this (well, long for me). Thank you very much for reading!


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